


I love you. I want us both to breathe well.

by bookmarksorganization



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema POV, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Multi, No Beta, POV First Person, Stress Relief, Vibrators, fic title is a reference to that Citro poem, soft?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookmarksorganization/pseuds/bookmarksorganization
Summary: This is a short kink one-shot using the (human AU) characters of Anathema and Beez from mia_ugly'sSlow Show.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Beelzebub (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13
Collections: Slow Show Metaverse





	I love you. I want us both to breathe well.

They’re sitting on my coffee table, and I almost point out that there’s room beside me on the couch, but I know better. 

I’m tense. It’s pulled my spine tight and reached up through my shoulder blades. It’s partly the new training to prep for season six, but part of it is just… everything. It’s too much for my body to hold.

Beez’s eyes are grey-blue. That pilot for the 18th-century historical drama (Starz didn't pick it up) sent me down a weird research hole. The color palettes had stuck with me: all those pastels. So, that’s what I thought of, the first time I noticed their eyes.

And, if you ignored the black hair, their features as a whole were actually incredibly delicate—cherubic, even. There was some purity there, some innocence. They had the kind of face that, again, if you really paid attention, could make you think they were seeing a world that was fresh, brand-new. Which was an absurd misdirection, and I couldn’t get over it. Beez looked at a Monet (we liked art dates) the same way they looked at me when I was on the floor under their boot. I loved it.

“What do you want to do?” they ask, with that accent.

I shiver. “I just… need to not decide that right now. And I need to relax.”

They get up wordlessly, going to my bedroom.

I sit and wait.

They come back with my Magic Wand, which they plug in and pass to me. They pull the table closer to the couch. It closes the space between us, and they sit down.

“Use it?” they ask.

I turn and twist enough while seated to pass it under my skirt, over the underwear I’m wearing. 

They take my jaw firmly in their hand, and push me into the cushions at my back.

I relax a little.

I know where this is going. It’s not the first time, not even close. We’d talked safe words and safe signs on the night—well, late-afternoon, of our first real date. A couple of weeks after the wrap party, a year and a half ago. It had all stayed _easy_. It worked. We talked, and we listened to each other. We both cared.

They hold eye contact with me in a way that I know is expectant. I stare back, and the palm of their hand moves, warm and dry to cover my mouth. They pinch my nose closed.

My eyes flutter shut, and I lean into the cushions. I shift against the Hitachi, trying to find that point of pleasure to chase.

Their hand lifts (my nose will stay pinched the whole time), after only moments, and I breathe instinctively, opening my eyes again. 

They’re so still, so calm. 

They lower their hand back over my lips. I feel _something_ and press the Magic Wand harder against myself. It’s not about being turned on. I just want to pull the orgasm out of me.

I know I’m expected to. I owe it to them.

I don’t think about not-breathing. That’s not my concern. I try to stay relaxed, or at least to keep my upper body still. I tilt my hips up, so slightly, pinpointing where to focus the vibrator.

They lift their hand up and it stays lifted as I take deep and continuous breaths.

They’re present, and serene. I need air. They might decide when I get it, but this is as much a part of it as waiting for when I’m allowed to. They’ve decided I need to breathe. They’re certain of it. I serve their determination.

It’s an act of care. 

They seal things off again and fuck, the vibrator feels great. I grind against it. The buzz sustains. Pleasure, and stillness.

Their palm moves back off.

It’s the way I bring them tea and sit at their feet, and they stroke my hair, and we watch trash cinema.

Sometimes it’s _you-just-exist-for-pleasure, you’ll breathe if I can be bothered_. And sometimes it’s this. _Breathe for me. You don’t have to decide, I’m telling you to breathe._

I do. 

They cover my mouth again. I know I’m close. I know I’ll be able to before.

We stare at each other and I feel myself tense up, trembling from reaching for the orgasm but trying to remain passive to the lack of air.

I keep reaching, and I come as they pull their hand back. They grab my jaw again as I gasp and whimper and moan. They stay like that, as I finally still and collapse sideways. The vibrator drops to the floor. I stretch out lengthways on the couch.

They stand, and push my shoulder enough that I move so that they sit beside me. I curl the upper half of my body into their lap.

“Have you ever seen The Toxic Avenger?” they ask.


End file.
